


Cursed Be Thy Father's Bollocks

by BiancaCastafarina



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiancaCastafarina/pseuds/BiancaCastafarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The duel between Sir Francis of Hadoque and Red Rackham takes an unexpected turn. Warning: Quick, angry sex and dub-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cursed Be Thy Father's Bollocks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Tintin kinkmeme on dreamwidth :) I had lots of fun with the insults, many of them are from Shakespeare. Hope you like.

Finally! Freedom!

Sir Francis of Hadoque was free, and the pirate crew, that gang of beef-witted pillocks, was too drunk to notice. Abominably drunk, judging from what they were singing. Some goddamned song about jewels that made his ears bleed. Well, Francis would make sure that no one took _his_ jewel – the Unicorn - , especially not that vile, miserable dog who called himself the Red Rackham. _No one takes my ship!_

Careful not to draw attention to himself around the drunk pirates, Francis climbed down the hatch into the Unicorn's storeroom. The Carribean heat was hardly bearable even at night, so he took off his hat and overcoat and threw them aside. The room was full of gunpowder barrels. He lit a lantern and lugged the first barrel across the wooden-planked floor, creating a trail of gunpowder around the room.

Then he heard the voice.

„You dog!" Red Rackham shouted.

Dropping the barrel with a loud _thud,_ Francis whirled around and drew his rapier. „Those the best last words you can think of, loggerheaded landfish?"

„You're the one who'll meet the devil", Rackham responded, swinging his own sword towards Francis who was quick to defend himself. Metal clanked onto metal, and for a moment Francis had the upper hand. - „I'm already facing the devil", the knight shouted back. „I shall live to knock your brains out, you cockabaloo!"

Rackham was a worthy opponent, capable with his weapon, and Sir Francis was growing anxious. No! He must not allow doubt or even fear to impair his judgment!

In one split second of negligence Francis evaded too late. Rackham slashed the knight's shirt with one swift blow. Francis gasped in surprise. Then, his anger newly fueled by this provocation, he hit back fiercely. „Take that, you babbling hare-brained maggot-pie! Whoreson mandrake! I shall hang you from the highest yardarm, you son of a cucumber!"

„We shall see, you burly-boned tickle-brained lout!" Rackham retorted, parrying each of Francis' rapier blows with experienced agility. „You lily-livered landlubber!"

„Cursed be your father's bollocks!" Francis knew it would be smarter to shut up and save his vigor for combat, but he could not help it. Disappointed rage drove the insults out of him.

„Cursed be your mother's foul, vinegary- _OW_!" Rackham staggered backward, his thigh injured by one of Francis' well-placed hits. Blood seeped through his fashionably tight clothes, but apparently it was a superficial wound, for just a second later he again lashed out at Francis. „Die, you misbegotten lap-dog of the king!"

„I'll kill you first, you loony hell-hated octopus!"

Rackham jumped forward and with one well-delivered blow he struck the rapier out of Francis' hand. It fell to the floor with a dull _clank_ , and before Francis fully realized what had happened, he felt the cold metal of Rackham's sword on his neck, forcing him to stand with his back against the wall.

For a moment they both stood still, breathing heavily from exertion and anger, then Rackham said, „You better surrender, whoreson. It'd be a pity to slay a fine fighter like you, but I'll do it if I must."

„Surrender? Never!" Francis barked. Never would he surrender to that miserable, mangy dog! Death seemed the only option. Well, at least it was an honorable death.

„Turn around", Rackham ordered.

„So you can kill me from behind, as befits a cowardly bastard like you?" Francis muttered. Instead of hearing a response, he suddenly felt himself being pushed aggressively against the wall. Rough wooden planks brushed his face. Rackham threw himself against Francis, and he grabbed the knight's hair, pulling his head back. Praying silently, Francis waited for the fatal blow.

But no such thing happened. Instead, Rackham threw his sword aside and pressed himself harder against the knight, and at first Francis refused to acknowledge the situation.

Only when Rackham's arousal was unmistakably squeezing against Francis' backside, and the pirate's hand reaching into his breeches, the knight uttered a low, „Damn!" All of a sudden, not only his life but also his pride and honor were at stake! He managed an incredulous laugh. „Ha! Ha! Ha! I'm not surprised that a demon-spawned changeling like you should also be a twisted, cabin boy-buggering sodomite!"

„Laugh now while you can", Rackham hissed, thrusting his pelvis harder against Francis' behind. „I shall make you whimper like the whelp that you are!"

„Avast, you shameless satyr", Francis shouted, pushing back against Rackham but the pirate did not let go. He was amazingly strong for being the shorter and slighter one; and now he was tugging at Francis' breeches. _By the beard of the Virgin Mary_ , this maggot-brained dirtbag was serious! With a ferocious push he managed to shove Rackham from him, and threw himself at the pirate, intending to pin him down and kill him with his own bare hands. Time to finish off that twisted dog!

Red Rackham seemed to have slightly different plans. He pulled Francis down onto the floor with him and successfully fought off Francis' hands, eventually rolling over so that the knight was underneath him.

„Blistering barnacles", Francis shouted, „get off me, you clouted gnome-faced strumpet!" He pushed wildly at Rackham, but the pirate still managed to pull down the knight's breeches, exposing him. „C'mon, lapdog of the king, don't you know the ways of Port Royal?"

Defending himself offensively Francis again won the upper hand and soon was straddling Rackham, trying to keep him down and to strangle him, that impertinent onion-eyed harpy; that puny clay-brained hedge-pig!

Rackham acted very quickly. Grabbing Francis' cock and grinning menaciously, he squeezed it and moved himself against the knight as far as the tight pseudo-embrace would allow.

Francis gasped, too taken by surprise and unable to think of attacking for a moment.

Taking advantage of that instant, Rackham stroked him, roughly but efficiently, his devilish grin mocking the knight's intentions.

„Don't you dare, roguish minnow", Francis shouted. „You bawdy folly-fallen cankerblossom! Beetle-headed lewdster! Son of a hemorrhoid!"

It was too late: the anger and aggression fueled Francis' arousal and he was becoming hard.

Rackham laughed. „Look at that! Didn't know you still could get it up, old man!"

„Craven miscreant, I'll kill you", Francis responded, regaining his wits, and enclosing his hands around the pirate's neck; but with a swift shove Rackham threw him down.

Rolling around on the wooden planks they wrestled, grunting, limbs entangled in clumsy, furious embraces, colorful insults spat out from between clenched teeth.

Francis' rational mind had ceased to work. He attacked Rackham like a dog provoked by a bitch in heat; and the pirate was even _encouraging_ him, blistering barnacles! - that cursed bastard; he was grinding himself against Francis, tearing at the knight's clothes, then pulling him into a forceful kiss.

Rackham's lips felt dry and chapped on Francis', and he tasted faintly of rum, and Francis was the first one to bite. The blood had a slightly sickening metallic flavour. Rackham angrily pulled away, hissing a curse.

Francis did not understand the words any more, only knew he had to defeat – hell, to _subdue_! to _crush_ this bat-fowling varlot!

With a grunt he managed to push Rackham back facedown onto the floor, throwing himself atop the pirate's back, and for a moment his face was so close at Rackham's nape that he could smell the scent of sweat and tobacco, and he realized his opponent was not struggling anymore – he was laughing.

That goddamned maltworm would soon be laughing on the other side of his face! Blinded by anger and his mind clouded by strange, aggressive arousal, he pulled at Rackham's breeches -

_\- but oh dear God, it is wrong, it is so wrong -!_

„What's the matter, lapdog of the king? Never shagged a man? Ah! Ha! Ha!"

 _Stop now, for the love of God, you can still stop, Francis!_ the voice in his head pleaded but became weaker – it was as though Francis' will had been taken over by a strange power. With a low groan he entered Rackham, eliciting a pained cry from the pirate.

 _Oh no, stop it Francis, stop it stopitstopit, in the name of all that is holy,_ but he couldn't, not now...! What use was stopping now? He thrust into him, deep and hard, groaning. His vision momentarily threatened to fade into blackness from the overwhelming sensation of triumph and tight heat. He had won! he had subdued that bastard, he would teach him a lesson-!

But it was so wrong, oh so wrong, disgusting, dishonorable, deplorable-!

Francis could not stop.

„Yeah", Rackham moaned, breathing hard. „Yeah, you dog. C'mon." A low chuckle. „Ow!"

 _I'll teach you a lesson, son of a serpent!_ Francis thrust into him again, harder.

 _For the love of God,_ that voice in his head cried faintly, _Francis of Hadoque, you are despicable, look at what you're doing...!_

Buggering his enemy? Oh, but that sodding trollop was asking for it, wasn't he?

„Ah, c'mon, you..." Rackham panted, „...you bore! Is that all you can do?"

He was asking for it, the bastard-!

Climax overtook Francis in the same moment as the realization that he had probably made a grave mistake, perhaps the worst mistake in his entire life, a foolish act of foolish temper, and _oh God-!_

„Oh God", he cried out loudly as he felt it all drain from him, the anger and desperation and _oh God-_

The next thing he knew he was slumped over Rackham, and the pirate easily pushed him away, and then Francis landed on the wooden planks of the floor, still breathing heavily from exhaustion.

Rackham was over him, tying Francis' hands and feet together. _Dear God, no!_

He had ravished the pirate in a moment of blind and passionate fury but the bastard had anticipated, _calculated_ the whole thing, hadn't he? Francis had lost the battle, he had fallen victim to his own temper!

„No", he cried out, now fully comprehending the situation he was in; struggling against the ropes the other man had bound him with, but they were tied well. Rackham was standing over him, clothes rearranged neatly, the wound on his tigh no longer bleeding. He grinned. „You lost, Sir Hadoque!"

„You... you-", Francis barked, „you miserable-!"

„Didn't you get it? You lost!"

Rackham held the rapier in his hands. The narrow blade sparkled threateningly in the flickering light of the lantern. „Goodbye, Dog of Hadoque."

Francis stared into his face and knew it was the face of Death.

**  
**

**\- the end**


End file.
